a love letter to the girls who do, say, feel, give, and are TOO much.

I could write the book on how loving people too much and too soon works out. How loving people who lack the capacity to love you back works out. How actively trying to not behave in lifeloveandallthatotherstuff like in manners past works out.

I could write the book because I am the girl that does, says, feels, and givestoo much.I’m dramatic and don’t know what chill is or where to find it. I often take up an extended residence in my head because it’s easier to overthink, trust, love, hate, feel, fear, and live that way. Safe.In my head. Where I am understood.

I used to wear my heart on my sleeve, but time has taught me to stop doing that. So, now I wear a jacket and try to pretend that my natural way of being in the world is not what some would and have called crazy. I wear a jacket because instead of writing love on my arms, the world has taught me the necessity [?] of protecting myself – protecting both you and I from me.

For, you see, I am a girl that does, says, feels, gives, and is too much.I don’t know like, only love. Don’t understand dislike, not meant to be and didn’t work out.There is only love and there is hate. Even though, as a person I’m always striving for indifference – a calm, cool, collectedness that always alludes me.

I will give you the world, my world, your world, our world, before it is time and way before you have earned it. My love language is to give. Give my time, attention, money, affection, love, intelligence, friendship, laughter, service, soul, spine for and to you. Because, my way of existing in the world assumes that you will give me these things back. But, that is often, not always, never always, where I, where girls who are too much are wrong.

Wrong because the world can sometimes, not all the time, be cruel to women like us. Wrong because people see our hearts and take advantage of them. Wrong because we give everything and did not think to leave a breadcrumb for ourselves. You know, so we could find our way home when our giving gets us nowhere and everything has gone to shit. Like it often, not always, never always does.

But still, we persevere. Still, I persevere. Put myself back together again and remind myself to be more careful next time around. And we are. I am. More careful. At least, initially. The problem is that being guarded is not in my purview. It is not even a skill I can teach myself. Trust me. I have tried. So, all I know and probably ever will is my leaking heart. My heart leaking so strong they can smell it in the street.

A manifesto of sorts, my leaking heart, dedicated to my way of being. Beckoning to both those I love and those I love to hate. Calling to those girls, those other girls that are like me. Offering myself as sacrifice. Because, I will always be a girl who does, says, feels, gives, and is too much.

Which means I will be a giver until the day I die. Or, until the day I close my windows, lock my doors, and burn my storage houses.

But, we all know that will never happen.Right?

I used to try not to be this way. To run it away. To work it away. To pray it away. Wish it away. Until one day it hit me, my ability to be so open, to give of myself and the world around me so freely, is my greatest strength. And I wouldn’t want to be anyway, or anyone else. I realized that the trick is figuring out who and what are worthy of my gifts – cuz, it ain’t and cannot be for everybody.